


Any Other Day

by irisbleufic



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-05-23
Updated: 2003-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-28 17:47:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/994766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A day just like any other, full of its own particular wonders.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Any Other Day

**Author's Note:**

> This was first published in a print zine, _Inside a Song_ , which premiered at MediaWest*Con 23.

Dawn seeps quietly through a half-open window, spilling pale gold through the curved gap left between shutter and sill. The light lands in a shimmering pool, gently lapping at the place where the fringe of finely swirled carpet meets with glazed hardwood floor. For a moment, the glow freezes and vanishes, only to be reborn against the far wall, much brighter than before. It illuminates the knob of an ornate bedpost, rippling slowly down as if to fill the carved tendrils of a vine, bestowing brief gold upon star-shaped blossoms one by one until, at last, the glint leaps and sparks on a strand of straw-colored hair—and then a profusion, mussed every which way against a creamy pillow.

The owner stirs faintly at the intrusion of light, turning to muffle a soft groan of protest against his companion's dark curls, nuzzling until his breath finds soft skin at the nape of his neck.

The dark-haired one stirs in turn, his lips parting against the pillow in a whisper. "Sam."

Sam shifts, the sound he makes much more content this time, one arm sliding up from beneath the covers to turn his companion to face him. "Mm, Frodo," he murmurs. "Come here."

"I am here," Frodo whispers, settling into Sam's embrace with a tentative kiss.

"So you are," Sam whispers, mouth open and soft against Frodo's until the kiss deepens and he rolls Frodo beneath himself, pulling what seems like a single whimper from them both.

They do not speak. For long moments, their movements are languid, rustling the sheets faintly as their bodies warm and rouse, murmurs rising with the brush of their chests, gasps emerging at the tangle of limbs, the press of hips. Soon, their kisses are feverish, uneven, and touches no less so. Sam breaks away for a moment, burying a cry in the softness of Frodo's hair, murmuring something intelligible to the other hobbit alone. Frodo responds with another kiss, long and fierce, and shifts under Sam, knees tenting the sheets up about his hips. Sam cries out urgently this time, clutching Frodo, rocking with him, until their voices merge once more in a shout high and plaintive—subsiding then into trembling and silence.

Frodo is the first to move, hands sliding down from Sam's shoulders, taking the sheets with them. Sam's back shimmers faintly with sweat; Frodo's hands continue on their intent, reverent path, until they come to rest at his waist, dipping to meet briefly at the small of his back. He kisses a path from Sam's lips to his ear and whispers, "I still can't believe..."

Sam finally shifts to one side, tugging Frodo with him. He kisses Frodo's neck tenderly, fingers tangled in his hair, murmurs a muffled, "I know."

Longer moments of silence follow, the stir of fresh air from the open window cooling and calming the fever in their skin. Unhurried caresses draw hums of pleasure from both, stifled in quiet, thankful kisses. At length, Frodo eases his mouth away and sits up, gazing down as he strokes Sam's cheek, which is wet with tears.

"We'd better get up, Sam," Frodo murmurs.

"I know, sir.  I—"

Frodo sets a finger against Sam's lips, shakes his head with a smile. Sam nods in apparent understanding, a few tears still trickling down. Frodo leans to lap them away, and soon they are laughing together, squirming their way out of the sheets and making for the bedroom door.

Once they have bathed and dressed, the kitchen fills with scents both rich and sharp. A fresh pot of tea steams on the table before Frodo, who watches intently as Sam goes about his usual business: tending simmering sausages, cracking brown eggs into a wooden bowl, chopping fresh herbs from the garden. It isn't long before Frodo pushes his tea aside and rises. He steps up behind Sam, leaning to press lips to his ear. "Is there anything I can do?"

Sam puts down the fork he's been using to beat the herbs and egg together, regarding Frodo's hand on his shoulder thoughtfully before leaning to kiss it, a blush creeping into his cheeks. He supposes there oughtn't be any harm in letting him slice up the cheese and mushrooms, and Frodo is delighted. Breakfast is served shortly thereafter with a side of toasted bread and jam. A brief scuffle follows: alas, for Frodo, the dishes are off limits, at least this morning.

They have been sleeping late enough on some days to miss first breakfast, these past weeks, but a hearty second usually more than makes up for it. With bellies pleasantly full, Frodo and Sam step into the late morning sun. Frodo pauses at the front gate, fingers poised for a moment before pushing forward, breathing the cool, constant breeze with a smile. Sam steps up behind him with affectionately chiding words, scooting him into the Row. Sam has a basket slung over one arm, and Frodo takes the other.

It's market day, and there are some provisions that even a Gamgee-tended garden can't speak for. Such as butter, and those delectable, fist-sized white plums from the orchard keeper's stand that Frodo has taken a liking to. Sam has a mind to get them a sapling of their own: no doubt, his Gaffer would be right proud. Frodo laughs and twines his fingers with Sam's, which to Sam is the sweetest agreement that he can offer.

As they pass, Frodo notices with an amused grin that the neighbouring smial's shutters are still closed, and that no bustling from within is sure to mean that _lazy_ —

"You oughtn't speak so," Sam chides, but his tone is playful and Frodo's glance in response is more playful still.

When they reach the stretch of rolling green, it's nothing for them to break out at a run—Frodo first, Sam following with a look somewhat uncertain, but soon enough abandoned – and patter across the bridge to meet acquaintances at the other side. A few passers-by stare briefly and shake their heads; this, too, is soon enough forgotten, and off they go about their own rounds, clear-eyed and purposeful.

Meanwhile, Sam hangs a step behind Frodo, clutching the basket politely and proper as Frodo converses with a friend, despite Frodo's constant glances and gentle, urging brushes at his forearm, his shoulder, his wrist. It's not his place, and the conversation's moving much too fast, besides—just as soon as he's caught up on one topic, they're already onto the next. One of these days, he'll be able to hold his own with Frodo's friends, he swears it—but until then it will be gardening and cooking and tending his beloved, just as it always has been. Sam hears Frodo bid the fellow good day, and with a sigh, Sam takes his hand.

"I'm still not used to it, sir. And it bein' so public, and all—"

"Hush," Frodo says softly, and leans to kiss Sam full on the lips without any care for who might be watching.

There is some laughter, perhaps, and some discreet pointing as Frodo and Sam continue on to the square, easily lost in the hum and bustle about them. Frodo has smiles for so many, and for that fact, Sam can't help but flush with pride: there's not a soul that doesn't know Frodo, may all that _queer_ talk be damned.

Sam threads his arm through Frodo's more confidently, and they go about their errands unhindered. Butter from the lass with copper in her hair and silver in her laugh; those plums, aye, and a few apples, too, from the orchard keeper with his voice as rich as honey. So alive, these folk they walk amongst day after day. And if Frodo's smile weren't enough to top it all off, well, his reaching into the basket for a plum is, sure as anything.

"You just can't wait, can you?" Sam can't even feign chiding this time.

Frodo raises the pale fruit to his lips and smiles against the smooth flesh. A slow, deliberate bite is his only response.

Blushing, Sam breathes and leans to kiss away the stray juice before it reaches Frodo's chin. It would be a shame indeed, if that fair embroidery were ruined, and Sam says so. Frodo leans to whisper something that makes him redden all the more.

They haven't any plans in particular—not truly, as Sam put in enough work on planting the day before. On their way back to the hole to deposit the now filled basket, Frodo halts them near the river's edge, his eye caught by a school of tiny, darting fish. Sam stands back; he is, as ever, wary, but he takes joy in Frodo's love of all things delicate and strange. The fish are quick and ghostlike, catching the sun through the water, gliding in patterns fit to match the Elvish in Frodo's library. Sam tugs his hand at last, and though Frodo moves with reluctance, in a short time, they are home.

Frodo's smile is lazy as he watches Sam unload their acquisitions, then impatient when Sam waxes too particular over arranging them in a ridiculously overdecorated glass dish (most unseemly mathom he's ever seen, and no mistake: only a Baggins would come by such a thing). Sam turns at the tug on his shoulder, meets with eyes wide, clear, and bluer than... than...

Than anything, Sam decides, and between one kiss and the next it's difficult to sort out whether it's the table or the sofa, and how they've come to be tangled in that old overstuffed chair when it wasn't even an option in the first place. But Frodo is wrapped around Sam, and anything besides, at this point, simply doesn't matter. Frodo's voice is soft and sweet in his ear, a song he hasn't heard in a while, and, oh, luncheon can certainly wait...

When they wake, only a few hours have passed. Frodo stretches, graceful as a cat, even breathing what might pass for a purr against Sam's chest. Sam is half awake, but far too content to move. Frodo nips at his chest, murmuring that he's quite hungry, and as if to further the point, his stomach interrupts with a growl. Sam groans and stretches, kisses Frodo's forehead, but just as he makes to rise, Frodo winds around him tighter and laughs.

"Oh, no you don't. It's my turn."

Sam relaxes. "I s'pose there's no harm in that, neither."

"You're ridiculous, Sam Gamgee. I love you."

Sam lets Frodo slip out of the chair and leans back to watch him dress. He's beautiful, always beautiful—slim, but still soft, skin like fine porcelain, even for his age. Sam lifts his head and rests it on his arm against the side of the chair, his breath catching. Frodo shrugs into his shirt, suddenly self-conscious, his eyes bright and inquiring. Sam smiles; he might cry again, easily. He tells Frodo, as simple as that: _Beautiful_.

"That can't be," Frodo murmurs, and with a smile almost shy and a kiss infinitely light, he's heading for the kitchen, and with another sigh, Sam looks after him through heavy-lidded eyes.  
Frodo returns to sit on the edge of the chair a short time later, carrying the basket. He wakes Sam with a gentle touch to the thigh, murmuring that he ought to dress, unless he'd like the neighbours to stare. This serves to wake Sam more effectively than the touch, and he sits up, a bit dazed, blinking at the basket, which contains a loaf of bread, some smoked ham, what's left of that peach cobbler he'd made a few days before—

And a bottle of Old Winyards.

"This ain't no special occasion," Sam whispers, slipping an arm around Frodo. "You ought to save–"

"No, I oughtn't," Frodo says simply, tracing patterns on Sam's stomach that make a few more moments' delay necessary.

When Sam is sufficiently clothed, he fetches their walking sticks. Instead of taking the Row, they cut directly across it, off into broad, clear fields that eventually meet and mingle with cool, lush forest. They choose a place they've gone to before: some ancient, moss-covered stones along a bubbling stream that eventually wends its way to the river. The trees towering over them are ancient, too, and the whisper of afternoon fading to early evening serves as perfect accompaniment to their dining and Frodo's recitations after. Elbereth bless him: Sam hadn't noticed the book tucked under the bread. One of Mr. Bilbo's very favourites; he'd read to them from it when Frodo was but a tweenager, and Sam but a lad.

Long into the evening, they lounge on the most comfortable patch of moss on the most comfortable rock, nursing the wine and cake until they've thoroughly had enough, kissing until they haven't. Frodo is tired; Sam can feel it as sure as he feels the approaching dusk. Frodo slurs a bit as he suggests they spend the night right where they are, but Sam persuades him otherwise. He knows well enough that others pass that way, and sometimes unseen, and it's only a matter of time before one of them decides to spy for a bit of amusement.

Sam coaxes Frodo off the rock, clasping one of his hands, carrying the basket in his other. Frodo blinks about them as they walk back, dreamlike, hand in hand. They're a bit off course and Sam knows it, but he's content to let Frodo lead. They've also left their walking sticks behind, but the worry is fleeting. They're not like to disappear overnight, if at all. Sam chuckles to himself, letting go of Frodo's hand momentarily, enough to let him move ahead a few steps, pointing out a single bright pinnacle in the sky overhead.

"The first star is always brightest," Frodo muses.

Sam takes his hand again, and makes a silent wish, though he can't think of anything more he might ask for.

It's fully dark by the time they reach the Row. Frodo's veering has led them to the very start of it, but a clearly marked path is welcome, without any guide or light, save the pale glimmer from overhead. Sam lets his arm slip low and easy about Frodo's waist, and Frodo leans to his shoulder with a sigh. This lasts only briefly; their progress is hindered, and besides, Sam reminds Frodo, there's warm tea and a warmer bed to be had just 'round the bend...

As they clear it, light from the first smial's windows bathes the road in a soft, orange glow. The shutters are open, and a host of candles burn inside. Frodo squeezes Sam's hand, grinning mischievously.

"I shouldn't talk _how_? Just watch—"

"Just watch nothing, Frodo-lad," drifts a tart but cheerful response through one of the open windows. "I know what you think of my lie-ins and late hours well enough! Don't think I'm not kept in the know—"

"Of course not, Uncle Bilbo," Frodo sighs, and rolls his eyes in Sam's direction.

Sam can only smile, his heart full to bursting. Frodo sounds so young again, so—

"Good evening to you, too, Master Samwise," Bilbo greets him, stepping up to the window, ready with a wave that might pass for a salute.

"'Evening to you, too, sir."

"You'll catch your death of that, one of these days," Bilbo says with a wink. "Frodo-lad's right, not even an army could order you to stop—"

"Bilbo, that's quite enough," Frodo laughs, the glint in his eyes both mirthful and severe. "And you know he shan't, no sooner than you or I. Good night, Uncle."

"Oh, bah. Off with you, lads," Bilbo sighs, waving them off, turning back to whatever he's been reading—or writing.

Frodo raises his free hand to wave, but Bilbo has already vanished. He sighs and turns, but before he can lower it, Sam catches it to his breast. As Frodo's eyes meet his, Sam's own third finger moves to cover the absence of one—

And, at long last, they are _whole_.


End file.
